It’s a truth universally acknowledged, that a single woman in possession of a good mind, must not bloody text a bloke, especially if she’s drunk.
‘Hello… my name is Jacquie and I’m a serial texter when I’m drunk.’ Actually I lie, my alter ego “Stalky” is a serial texter. Now don’t you bettys shake your heads at me I know you all do it! However I have spent some time on a theory about women and text messages (South African’s do not judge me for using the term “text”; the thing is I know you are smarter than the UK bunch and will be able to understand me whether I use sms or text) and I hope you will indulge me as I delve into the psyche of women and probably offend a great many males in the process.
…a ring, no not an engagement ring, women do know that this means telephone call
If I were taken into a torture chamber by Iraqis there is a lot that they could do to crush my spirit. However they’re missing a trick when it comes to true emotional torture. It’s the torture known to all women as “waiting for the phone to ring”. I have a scenario and I’ll use myself as an example to really prove just how into my own theory I am.
Jacquie and “Candidate A” meet in a bar. He just happens to be a barman because for some reason I have a propensity for fancying men who can deliver chilled tequila on demand. After joining me in a couple of tequilas his beer goggles are well and truly in need of a good clean so he tells me I’m gorgeous, funny and the most remarkable betty he’s ever met (the latter comment is probably because I can hold my tequila; it’s part of the LaClawgenome project). After a tad of mild flirting he asks for my number (a rare treat) and asks me if I would like to go for a drink, a meal, casual sex, to the zoo, basically whatever my fancy may be. I of course flash the “overdosed on calcium smile” and oblige my digits which I can remember. Finally.
Peculiarly enough the date comes through and although my smalltalk is up to bollocks he is strangely endeared by my insane outlook on being female, my insatiable appetite for rugby, my plans to get married in a pub whilst watching “the big game”, my hatred for rose petals, dolphins, moonlit strolls and alcopops. A good result when he pays the bill (hey I’m still a girl in some respects!) and says he had a “truly fantastic evening”.
Over the ensuing weeks I reply to a couple of text messages, see him, respond to his advances but don’t really give much away in terms of dropping the world’s stupidest phrase ‘what are you thinking?’ (Guys if a betty is lame enough to use this what it means is… ‘I really think you’re great and I’m just wondering if you feel the same about me…’ basically she’s expecting the answer to be ‘I was thinking about how amazing you are’… vomit.) Anyway having not asked the pillowtalk favourite I am doing pretty well. He knows I like him but I’m not exactly humming the wedding march or dropping hints about baby names. And then it happens…
He says, ‘I look forward to seeing you again’ or ‘I really think you’re nice’ or ‘I’ll give you a ring…’ I think the last one is key really. Women are constantly told we’re complicated so I need to just clarify the sentence ‘I’ll give you a ring‘. ‘I’ll’ means “I will” meaning you (the bloke) will. ‘Give‘ is a verb and it’s pretty active, in other words it’s not passive; personally I have never passively given someone the finger. ‘You‘, well that’s easy, unless you’re confusing ME with another betty you’ve been secretly shagging. And finally ‘a ring‘, no not an engagement ring, women do know that this means ‘telephone call‘. So therefore when the phone doesn’t ring after a set period of time we do start to wonder, and yes wondering leads to psychosis and turning into a stalker.
I don’t understand men at all. They complain when bitches go psycho on them but they’re the idiots who utter phrases like ‘I’ll give you a ring’. I know a bloke who led this poor bint up the garden path for a couple of months. She fell madly in love with him and was constantly waiting for the phone to ring which was invariably a bootie call when it did. Eventually the bloke had tortured her enough and said ‘I’ll give you a ring’, so she wrote him a 20 page letter giving exact reasons as to why she hates him. Personally I think 20 pages is probably too long for a film but it would have been a truly excellent film for she really nailed just how much she hated him; unlike that trite attempt made by that bint in the lame-o movie. Obviously in her mind brevity was unnecessary. I did feel strangely sorry for her although she should have known better; said bloke is a bit of a turd.
Every single relationship I have been in has had a “waiting for the phone to ring period” and it’s honestly the most diabolically frustrating, tormenting, adjectives-will-not-suffice experience. You wake up in the morning and people phone and invite you to places. It’s surprising how when you’re waiting for bloke to call a melange of cool options come up, any other time your life is just bloody sad. Sometimes you say no because he’s going to phone and you don’t want to be in Cyprus when he does. Sometimes you decide to go but you hate every minute of it because every second of the day you’re checking to see if he’s called or texted. What you don’t know is he’s probably watching sport, drinking a beer, going to bars, having a crap, tossing a frisbee with mates or braaing.
After a couple of days you decide to “forget about him”. You put your phone in a faraway place like in the lounge when you’re in the kitchen. You think ‘when I get back I’ll have a missed call…. definitely’. Trust me you won’t.
Time passes and eventually one of two things will happen. Either he will text you and say something random like ‘I was just in Tescos and I bought some beer’ or he will not say a bloody thing. If you do get a random text you will invite all your other crazy betty mates around and proceed to go all subtext on his ass. This is where you need to understand that men are not deep. ‘I was just in Tescos and I bought some beer’ is not code for ‘I was thinking about you’, ‘I want to see you’ or ‘will you marry me’. What it means is that he went toTescos and bought some beer. Admittedly this is bloody strange but it’s just the way things are; it’s the reason why you should never ask the bastards what they’re thinking.
Should you have not heard anything from him it’s likely that you’ll go a little nuts and turn to alcohol. Having learnt the hard way it’s best to delete his number and yes that means also deleting any sentimental text messages from him (eg. ‘I bought some beer’). Drunk bettys are incapable of not sending drunken texts. Trust me I know. The scenario is likely to unfold such if you don’t delete his number…
You and your group of bettys will start the evening sculling wine and bashing the male race. This will lead to cocktails, perving over barmen, shooting tequila and there may be tears depending on your “bettyness”. You will then remind everyone in the group to staple shit to your face if you even contemplate texting the evil male. They will all agree and promise to keep you on the straight and narrow. Time passes, wine is consumed and you’re one drink off from dancing naked on the last tube of the evening. And then it happens… SEND…
You wake up the next morning with your knickers on your head and the feeling like someone has crapped in your mouth. You have a horrible feeling that you may have snacked on a kebab and you know that if you snacked on a kebab you must have been pretty rotten. Surely not rotten enough to have sent a text message to the bloke? You then realise you’ve been cuddling your phone which is ultimately not a good sign. A visit to the sent items will indeed confirm all your worst nightmares… a message that looks like it’s been composed by a blind infant. However it’s likely he’ll be able to get the gist because predictive text has enabled you to get some words right.
I asked my mate what we used to do before cellphones (sorry mobile phones). We deliberated for a while before I admitted to doing the ring-and-hang-up thing… I guess bettys are just programmed to be dumb sometimes.
I’m not really sure that there is a solution to this conundrum apart from amputation. Ultimately men will behave in a way that makes us believe they are worthy of a 20 page letter lambasting their character. And ultimately men will wake up on Sunday mornings with numerous texts that are, for the most part, proof that chicks are fucking nuts.
In the meantime bettys need to go out and buy a copy of Waiting for Godot. And read it.